


Broken Instruments

by darkblu



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Dom/sub Undertones, Hannibal is a fuck old bourgeois vampire, M/M, Vampire Hannibal Lecter, Vampires, Werewolf Will Graham, Werewolves, Will is a sad lonely giant ass werewolf, ghosts n stuff, idk really what's going on here, it came to me in a dream, no literally, supernatural creatures in mobster gangs i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-08-07 08:14:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7707571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkblu/pseuds/darkblu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal Lecter is an 834 year old vampire.  A supernatural mobster king, he lives merely to create and destroy.</p><p>Will Graham is a lone werewolf who stumbles on a place to belong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Instruments

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you'll enjoy this for the random snapshot it is, and if it reads a little like a fever dream, that's because it essentially is one. My subconcious was up all night spinning a variety of scenes and prompts for me, and I had to get this one down. The vague context is essentially that Will hasn't had a pack in decades, which is not a good lifestyle for werewolves, who crave companionship, and especially not for one who is submissive. He decides to spend a little time working for the powerful mob of one Hannibal Lecter, see if he can fit, andddd ACTION!
> 
> Fyi I picture fully transformed werewolves something like [this](http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uuWSOEAIs90/ScfZL-AMkOI/AAAAAAAAAZY/gcVXD1qus2c/s1600/SH+concept+post+werewolf+Greys.png), around 7 - 9 feet tall, to give you an idea. ;u; 
> 
> unbeta'd

The orders are to destroy everything, raze the mansion to the ground.  Will hears the words forty-two minutes after they’re spoken to him.  He’s standing in the ballroom, gold wallpaper reflecting an illusory warmth.  

There's movement everywhere.  A crystalline shatter echoes from the walls, perfect acoustics weaving glass notes with human screams from the floor below.  Will turns slowly, finds the patio windows in fragments on the floor, satin curtains shredded, cascading gently in ribbons.  

It smells like fire from the gardens, iron and sulphur.  The room is in chaos, paintings falling of their own accord, frames splitting on impact.  One of the half dozen chandeliers drops four feet from Will, crystal shards cutting at his ankles.  A shade blinks in and back out above the twisted frame, laughing.  

A wolf knocks into Will, half transformed, chin pink with saliva and blood.  He says something at Will, lips moving around smiling fangs.  He careens into the wall, leaving a crush mark, then he’s through the door.  

A delayed snarl curls Will’s lip.  He flexes his hands, finding them tacky, red, black as the lights cut.  The room becomes silver, a caressing dark.  He inspects his palms, wet stains patterned by the creases in the flesh.  He has no memory of the source.  

A dull reflection shines in Will’s periphery, drawing his attention like the crashing in the room doesn't.  It's the polished wood of a cello, knocked to it’s side but intact.  He steps closer, drawn to it, perfect, still, in the ruins of the room.  He lets his mouth fall open, lets his claws cut free, bones elongating, halting the turn halfway.  He wants to pick it up, feel the neck of the instrument in his hands.  

He lifts it slowly, careful of its weight between his claws.  It’s expensive, one of a kind.  And it smells alive.  The strings respond to the brush of a claw, the sound balanced, perfectly tuned.  Will runs his bloody palm down it’s body, leaving a black wake against the wood.  The thing gleams in the low light from the broken windows, reflects the moon in a way that whispers to Will to turn.

  Somehow, it makes him angry.  His hand slips to it’s side, squeezing just slightly.  Claws dipping into the wood, they leave a scratch, then a welt.  The cello resists for a moment before the instrument buckles, giving a whine.  Chunks of wood fly in every direction.  On impulse, Will snaps the neck with his other hand, lifting the broken thing to eye level.  Pieces suspended by strings, spinning slowly.  He lowers his hand, grips it at the pegs, and drags it from the ballroom.  

Will knows he’s here.  He’s only seen him once before, but he knows, knows he’ll want this broken thing.  And under the full-moon, he wants to bring it to him.  Some part of him, the human part, tells Will it’s moon fever.  That it’s one item out of hundreds in this dying colossus.  That the vampire is dangerous, that it’s one thing to follow, another to pursue.  

But he tracks the scent of blood and petrichor up the staircase, down the hall.  He ignores the crashes and screams, more infrequent now, dragging the musical carcass along the trail to the master suite.  The doors have been torn off the hinges.  Will steps silently through the frame.

The room remains untouched, would be pristine without the arterial stain sprayed on the far wall.  A dark trail leads from it through the balcony doors, wide open, curtains billowing gently in the breeze.  Ash salts the air, sparks drifting like fireflies.

Will sees him at the railing, looking out at the gardens, leaning on his palms set wide against the stone, his silhouette warm from the blaze below.  Will watches his hair drift with the curtains, air swirling from dissipating heat.  Something clicks beneath his ribs.  

“Beautiful,” Will croaks, forgetting himself.  The word is strangled, too much teeth.  The vampire raises his head slowly, one hand sliding from the railing as he pivots to face Will.

  Hannibal’s eyes are sapphire, illuminated by fire.  Will wants to transform, wants to drop to all fours and beg for anything he’ll give him, including death.  Instead he falls to his knees and holds out the absurd gift, the cello’s remains giving a few discordant hums as it’s dragged over the oriental rug.    

Will stays absolutely still.  His breathing quickens, the urge to turn squeezing tighter around his throat with each heartbeat.  

“Bring it to me,” Hannibal finally says, voice deep, accent thick.

  Will’s eyes widen in a panic that strikes far too late.  He wants to run, twitching with the instinct to snarl and bark and run, because this vampire can kill him and he doesn’t really know what he’s doing in a room with him.

  “Don’t doubt yourself now,” Hannibal says. “Bring it here.”  

Tears spring to Will’s eyes, and he swallows a whimper.  He shuffles the first half yard on his knees, finding his feet and stumbling the rest of the way to Hannibal, huffing from the effort to stay partially human.  It hurts him like it hasn’t hurt before, skin raw, wrong.

  Once he gets close enough, Will drops to his knees again, hunching his shoulders, chin to his chest.  He hands over the broken cello, claws grazing the cool skin of Hannibal's wrist.  Will flinches back from the accidental touch, deadly impropriety sinking ice in his stomach.    

Hannibal inspects the cello in silence, instrument suspended in Will's line of vision.  Will focuses on Hannibal’s trouser leg, perfectly creased, speckled with blood like tiny dew drops.  An orange haze sets a gradient against the stars between the balusters, and Will lets it blur his vision, trying to breathe.  

Suddenly Hannibal’s hand is in Will’s hair, stroking back once.  A grunt punches from Will’s throat, terror choking him, but the touch is gentle.  “Good boy,” Hannibal says, soft.  

Heat washes through Will, the whine he’s been holding pouring forth, drawn out.  It turns to a snarl at the edges, body giving in to the transformation.  His clothes shred instantly, breeze soothing through fur.  Will finds his tail between his legs, great snout gently brushing Hannibal’s ankles in supplication.  

He fists the thick fur at Will’s ruff, pulling him firmly to a bipedal stance, switching to grip beneath Will’s jaw when he tries to sink back down.  Will doesn’t want to be taller than him, doesn’t want to look him in the eyes, but he doesn’t let him go, so Will lets himself cry a little.

  “Hush,” Hannibal tells him, and Will cuts off the sound instantly.  “Do you know what this is you’ve given me?”

  Will shakes his head, almost pulling them both off balance.  

He chances a glance at Hannibal’s eyes, finds them narrowed, sparkling with interest.  Will blinks rapidly and looks away, mouth opening to pant nervously.  The vampire is so close, so dangerous, hand so close to Will’s throat.  A fresh whine trickles from him, equal parts fear and fractured desire.  

“You don’t know, and yet you knew I’d want it.  In pieces.”  Will starts to nod, but Hannibal grips him tighter.  “Use words,” he orders.  

“Yes,” Will slurs.  It’s hard to speak like this, harder to speak when he’s drunk on the moon, on Hannibal’s power.  “Smelled.  Alive.”

  Hannibal considers him for a moment more, smile breaking into being, fangs bright against his lips.  Will doesn't check if it reaches his eyes.  Hannibal lets Will’s head lower a fraction, dropping the cello to clatter to the ground.  His free hand comes up to pet Will’s head, pressing his ears down with firm strokes.  Will can’t stop his tail from wagging, uneven, between his knees.  It's been too long, a small forever, since anyone touched him with approval.  

He releases Will’s jaw, and Will crouches slightly, putting his eyes below Hannibal’s.  He wants to pull away and press close all at once, unsure which instinct to trust.  Which he’s allowed.  The most powerful vampire on the continent, petting him.  So Will hovers somewhere in the middle, looking at Hannibal’s cheek bones, the line of his jaw, anything but his eyes.  

“What do I call you?" Hannibal asks.

"Will."

"Who do you belong to, Will?”  

Will’s eyes flick to Hannibal’s, reflexive, compelled.  Will can't read him, and it terrifies him.  “No one,” he answers, voice thick.

  Hannibal’s hand slips from Will’s head to the back of his neck, pulling him in.  Will hesitates a moment, reverse polarized.  Hannibal tightens his grip on Will’s fur.  Will whines, caving, because what choice does he have?   He didn’t come to Hannibal hoping for a choice. 

Will surges forward, crowding the vampire, pressing his muzzle to Hannibal’s neck.  Will tucks his giant head beneath Hannibal's chin, breathing in death, pavement, fresh rain.  Hannibal presses a thigh between Will’s, and the wolf drapes his weight on him, whining with sad relief at the contact, letting his human pride shatter.

“Not anymore,” Hannibal says.

**Author's Note:**

> switched to third person to give it a look, think I like it better!
> 
> i doubt i'll take this anywhere, but i do have ideas, so let me know if you're interested in me expanding this. Thanks for reading! ♥


End file.
